I hang up, feeling a familiar knot forming in my stomach.
The lender’s office is in a quiet part of town, tucked away above a small, bustling café.
I’ve been there once before, years ago, when the business was just starting out.
Back then, the owner seemed friendly enough, a fixture in the community with a reputation for helping those in need.
But now, that image is blurred by the coldness I’ve experienced.
I wonder what I’ll find when I step through those doors again.
The clock ticks slowly as I go through the motions of the evening.
Cooking dinner, tidying up, trying to keep my thoughts from spiraling.
Yet, each task feels monumental, as if I’m moving through quicksand.
Hours pass, and the apartment grows quiet around me.
Outside, the city hums gently, a distant backdrop to my restless thoughts.
I find myself standing in the kitchen again, staring at that empty spot.
It’s as if I’m waiting for a sign, a clue to unravel the mystery that’s taken hold of my family.
But all that greets me is silence.
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